


Samson

by thephilosophersapprentice



Series: as if these names could take our sins [4]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ishbalan | Ishvalan, Automail, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Body Horror, Chronic Pain, Edward Elric is disabled, Ishbal | Ishval, Ishbalan | Ishvalan Alphonse Elric, Ishbalan | Ishvalan Edward Elric, Team Mustang to the rescue, Vomiting, i don't think it's too graphic but caveat lector, injuries, oh yeah and there's cake, the realities of amputation aren't pretty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 04:11:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17994608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thephilosophersapprentice/pseuds/thephilosophersapprentice
Summary: Without the aid of others, we would all die alone. To refuse help freely given is an insult tantamount to a slap.Ironically, those are the two tenets of Ishval that Edward has the hardest time following.Or: Edward's stumps are aching again. Team Mustang tries to help.





	Samson

**Author's Note:**

> This one got away from me a bit. Oh well.

 

Envy wouldn’t stop smiling—a cruel, vacant smile—as he peeled back the metal from Edward’s body, then the skin, then layers of muscle, back and back until there was nothing left but darkly gleaming bone. And there was nothing Edward could do to stop it.

They might look human, but up close you could tell they were anything but. There was no empathy or kindness in Envy. He inflicted nothing but pain.

“Brother dear,” Envy grinned, “it’s time to wake up.”

“Ed!” That couldn’t be Envy. It sounded too concerned. “Wake up!”

Ed clutched at his automail, ensuring that it was still there. Skin, muscle, bone—it was all still there, his whole shoulder still cased in metal to secure the weight of the arm. He brushed the cold toes of his prosthetic leg with the feeling, soft, warm one—still there.

Right. Now he just had to—uncurl—

The deep ache in his shoulder and leg stabbed blinding white into his skull. His mind blanked out.

Edward retched into the trash can next to the bed.

“Brother!” Al exclaimed, sounding worried.

Edward curled into a tighter ball, clawing the blankets closer in an attempt to contain his rapidly escaping body heat. “Don’t think I can get up today, Al,” he croaked.

“Right… just… stay where you are. I’ll get you some water.” Al’s footsteps receded, leaving Edward alone to his thoughts.

The room spun slowly, pretending it wasn’t, but it was secretly laughing at him. He was trying to—do _something_ —but the task kept sliding out of his mind like water, like an escaping superfluid—and no matter how far he went, longer and longer, only moving in circles, weary and never getting there—it never got _done_.

Marks from the plaster brush on the ceiling formed strange shapes—new alchemical symbols that were either genius or pure nonsense. Ed’s mind had turned to mercury; meaning all slid away into a deep, dark chasm.

A small eternity later, Al returned with water. Edward counted footsteps—five, six, seven—before Al gently supported him, helping him to drink.

With the water came the sharp reminder of just what was wrong and Edward fought for control as the alternating stabbing and throbbing aches closed in again.

The Fullmetal Alchemist reduced to his natural, base state: completely harmless.

Al, out in the main area opposite the kitchenette, using the phone: “Lieutenant Hawkeye? This is Alphonse Elric. I’m sorry, but Ed won’t be able to make it to the office today. No, he’s not sick—his stumps are acting up again. No… it doesn’t happen that often… Thanks. I’ll tell him. Thanks again. Bye.”

Alphonse came back into the bedroom. “Lieutenant Hawkeye says she hopes it stops hurting soon.”

“Well, she’s not the one in the bed, is she?” Ed croaked, ungenerously.

“Brother! There’s no need to be so callous!” Alphonse scolded.

Edward tried to curl tighter, shivering.

“I’ll see if the concierge can get us any more blankets,” Al relented, for now. He slid a hot-water bottle under the blankets.

Edward _hated_ days like this, when his mind couldn’t get a grip on any one thought, betraying him. Without alchemy—without the ability to solve a problem—he didn’t feel like himself. He might as well be one of Al’s cats that the younger boy snuck in from time to time off the street.

Al didn’t deserve an older brother who was missing half his limbs and couldn’t even walk without automail—couldn’t even walk _with_ it some days. Al should have had _parents_. Not an older brother who was a mediocre provider, a miserable caretaker, and a tragically inconsistent disciplinarian.

Edward wasn’t capable of loving Alphonse the way Al deserved to be loved.

Some days, Ed wondered if Al stuck around only out of pity, or worse—because Ed needed Al to take care of him.

Time inched by—he didn’t know how much. After a long time, someone knocked on the door, then pushed it gently open.

“Edward?” Lieutenant Hawkeye called. “Al went out to get some things. I don’t think he’d want you to be alone.”

Edward shrugged. Hawkeye had seen him at his lowest already anyway.

“Can I get you anything?” Hawkeye asked. “Hot cocoa, maybe?”

Edward shrugged again, the motion sending a jolt up through his shoulder, down the arm that wasn’t actually there. “It still tastes like milk.”

“Tea?”

“…Okay.”

* * *

 

Edward had managed to doze off for a little bit, but he jerked awake when the whistle shrieked, immediately followed by a muffled curse from Hawkeye. If Edward hadn’t been lost in the ache from his stumps, he would have noted it with interest—Hawkeye _never_ cursed. As it was, it only drew his dulled attention for a few seconds without sparking any interest.

“What do you normally do when this happens?” Hawkeye asked, suddenly in the bedroom again.

It took far too much effort to think, let alone speak, in this state. “Hot water bottle… sometimes a hot bath… hot compress… tea.”

Hawkeye handed him the mug, steadying his flesh arm when his hand shook. She pulled up the chair from the corner and sat next to the cot. “I noticed you and Al don’t have a phonograph.”

“We’d never be around to use it,” Edward said, gripping the mug for warmth. “We used to have one... when we were little. Mom used to dance with us, even though the only records we had were Amestrian composers…”

Ed sipped his tea, his attention slipping away with the steam. “She used to say it was as well, that Amestrian music was good enough, it could be written down and captured—but our Ishvalan music was changing all the time. To record it would be to reduce it… That used to make me sad, though I didn’t know why.”

“Because you would rather hear it recorded than never hear it again,” Hawkeye said, her voice quiet and full of an emotion Edward could not name.

“Yes… I think that was it.” Edward fell silent, not knowing what more could be said.

“Since you don’t have a phonograph… would you like me to read to you?” Hawkeye asked.

Edward opened his mouth, shut it again, swallowed his pride. “I’d like that.”

For a while, in between the blank waves of nothing—not sharp enough for pain, too deep for anything else—there came the tales of a foolish knight riding out on errantry a century too late, tilting at windmills.

* * *

 

Edward realized he’d dozed off again when Al’s voice broke through the haze surrounding him. “Ed! I bought arnica! And everyone’s here to wish you well!”

“I wish you wouldn’t make such a fuss,” Ed grumbled, sitting up. It still hurt, but not enough to make him queasy this time. “If you hadn’t called them, they wouldn’t have come.”

“Why is that such a bad thing?” Alphonse demanded.

Ed’s head spun. He’d spoken too soon. This was just too much—too many people—too many voices, all too loud and confused—too many colors and conflicting scents. He swallowed.

Worst of all, if they saw him now…

“Tell them to go, Al,” Edward snapped.

“Brother!” Al exclaimed reprovingly. “Lieutenant Havoc even made soup for you!”

“I don’t want to see them,” Ed growled, lifting his head and slamming it back against the thin, hard pillow. Too rough, too coarse. “They can see me on Monday. Just let me rest.”

“They only came to help!” Al said, outraged.

“Edward has every right not to want company when he’s not feeling well,” Hawkeye said, her voice quiet, even, mediatory. Edward felt himself go hot. Had he really lashed out like that when Hawkeye was in the room to see it?

“That’s no excuse for him to be _rude_ ,” Alphonse said.

The silence was heavy, awkward. Edward tried to speak but couldn’t force the words out.

“Brother, you can’t just go around insulting people just because you don’t feel well, or because you’re in a bad mood,” Alphonse reprimanded.

Edward swallowed. Al was right. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” he said, bowing slightly. “My words and actions were uncalled for. Please forgive my lack of manners.” Hawkeye blinked at him in surprise, as if she wanted to ask what had just happened.

“In Ishval, survival is the most important thing,” Alphonse said quiety. “Without aid from others, we would all die alone. It doesn’t matter who you are—friend, stranger, even the deadliest enemy—it’s our duty to offer aid to anyone who needs it. And to refuse help freely given, even if you don’t need it, is a worse insult than spitting on the face of a friend.”

Hawkeye absorbed all this with a thoughtful expression.

“Of course Brother didn’t mean it,” Al said hastily. “He’s just…”

“Rash like that,” Edward growled into his collar.

“Still,” Hawkeye said, “I doubt it would help Edward much for everyone to stampede through here like a herd of buffaloes. I’ll let them know to keep it down.”

Edward waited until she had left the room. “Al, help me up.”

“Are you sure?” Alphonse asked anxiously.

“I can’t lie around in here all day, can I?” Edward asked.

Slowly, Alphonse nodded. He lifted Edward from the bed and half-guided, half-carried him into the main area.

“You weren’t kidding that it was bad,” Havoc said sympathetically. Edward lifted his good shoulder in an apathetic half-shrug.

“This doesn’t happen often, does it?” Fuery asked, almost apprehensively.

“No, not often,” Al said. Edward bit his lip, hating the pity.

“Sorry I’m late,” a deep voice said from the door. “I heard Fullmetal wasn’t doing well.”

Oh, _no_.

Why _him_?

Edward grimaced, trying to summon up a somewhat-sincere smile. The dull throb in his shoulder and leg had migrated to his head and taken up residence there, making it difficult to think. “Colonel… what are you doing here?”

Ever since he’d, due to a combination of pressure from Al and sleep deprivation, inadvertently told Mustang about Mom, their relationship had been… odd. Not strained, but… different. Mustang had been almost treading on eggshells around Edward, and Ed hated that. It was confusing. It would have been so much easier if Edward could go back to hating the bastard.

“I’m checking in on you,” Mustang said, setting down the box on the side table to unwind his scarf—wait, the _box_?

“Why? More importantly, what _is_ that thing?”

Mustang lifted the top of the box. It was a cake—mercifully _not_ emblazoned with a tooth-achingly sappy message like “Get Well Soon”— _miles_ from appropriate, since Edward wasn’t ill—but it was a _cake_ , all the same.

Edward glanced from Mustang to the cake and back. “You got me a cake,” he said, disbelief heavy in his voice.

“I considered getting flowers, but that’s more Major Armstrong’s style,” Mustang said. “Should I not have done?”

Alphonse made a meaningful sound, like clearing his throat. Edward swallowed.

“No… I just don’t particularly care for sweets,” he said. “Thanks for the gesture?”

Mustang glanced at Alphonse with amusement. Yeah. Real funny. Laugh alongside the kid who made him at least act like he was housebroken. “That’s all right,” Mustang said. “We’ll just eat the cake tonight, then.”

Edward shrugged indifferently.

“This must be hard for you,” Mustang said quietly, not loud enough to reach the ears of Falman or Breda, who had taken over the kitchenette and were quietly arguing over the best places to put the groceries they’d brought. Edward shrugged again. “If there’s anything I can do,” Mustang said, “please let me know.”

The room turned sideways for a moment as cold air blew in through a cracked window, piercing straight to Edward’s bones. “Shut the damn window, Havoc!” Falman raged from a distance. “What do you think you were doing?”

“I didn’t want to stink up the apartment,” Havoc protested.

“This isn’t the 1700s! Were you raised in a barn?”

Ed could hear the smirk in Havoc’s voice as he replied, “Actually…”

The fabric on Edward’s chest was rough, heavy. It smelled slightly like a bonfire and was still warm from someone’s body. Mustang had taken off his coat in the interim.

Embarrassed, Ed burrowed deeper into the coat. Somehow, there was no hint of paint or anything chemical on Mustang’s coat; it smelled like a wood fire. The smell brought back memories of camping trips and winter evenings spent roasting chestnuts and telling stories and the annual midsummer bonfire that had been held every year in Resembool for more than half a century; of _one is all and all is one_.

Edward found himself sniffling slightly. Stupid weather.

“Do you ever wish you hadn’t become a state alchemist?” Mustang asked, too quietly for the others to hear. Edward shook his head. “Don’t you miss your home?”

“Which one?” Edward asked, quietly. “Our old house is gone… and we’ve never seen Ishval.”

“I’m sorry,” Mustang said.

Edward took a swing at him. “Stop apologizing, dammit!” Mustang’s expression stayed a blank stare, even as Ed cracked the knuckles of his left hand in a glancing blow to Mustang’s jaw. “Don’t act helpless! Just get up and walk!”

Mustang’s expression was startled, hurt, then rueful. “I guess I deserved that,” he said.

“Get a move on!” Edward snapped. “I know that sounds rich coming from the guy who couldn’t get out of bed on his own all day, but—”

“No, you were right.”

Edward’s mouth fell open. Alphonse popped a forkful of cake in it.


End file.
